


the only difference is your press coverage

by glitteration



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Gen, Women Being Awesome, everything is bad in the bunker, file this under sorry not sorry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-29
Updated: 2018-03-29
Packaged: 2019-04-14 11:22:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,579
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14135061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glitteration/pseuds/glitteration
Summary: run the streets and i break up housesriver runs deep and the flame devours itabby's had it up to here with living in the wreckage of other people's martyrdom.( quick s5 'what if' fic, sorry not sorry )





	1. Chapter 1

Marcus’ time in the pit has started to wear on him. Not physically—oh, there are bruises that need time to heal before his next bout in the ring, cuts to stitch and twice now she’s had to reset his nose, but he takes to the fighting with an ease that clearly tears at him. It’s the toll on his spirit she worries about. The bunker has no use for born diplomats and many, many uses for a trained soldier. He’d refused a spot in Octavia’s guard only to run headfirst into the pits, unable to resist a chance to help the Arkadians left who can’t fight for their own resources.

_Unable to resist another chance to die a hero_ , an ugly voice whispers, curled like a serpent in the back of her mind. It’s not a fair assessment, but neither is it untrue. The same urgency he brings to bear when it comes to her safety is entirely missing when his life is the one hanging in the balance.

She’s long since forgiven him enough to allow him back into her trust, let alone her bed, but the lesson he taught her before the bunker was sealed is one she tells herself she’s learned well. Marcus will see to her until the last and think nothing of himself; think nothing of striding into the ring and making a last grand gesture. As if his death is inconsequential but for what he can do with it.

She can see it clear as the daylight they’ve done without for years: the speech he’ll make, the bravery that will stiffen his spine against what’s coming, and the shattered remains she’ll again be left behind to try and piece together.

The guards at Octavia’s door let her through without questioning why Abby needs to see her, and Abby spares a moment of gratitude for her relative autonomy.

Thelonious and Marcus have both seen their power wane under Octavia’s rule; she suspects it was memories of their shared time with Lincoln that kept Abby herself mostly untouched by the political fallout of a girl finally able to avenge her mother as much as her place in medical. She’s never attempted to leverage that leniency before, but there’s a certain fitting irony in why she’s willing to try.

Octavia looks up from the tablet in hands and cocks her head. “Abby. Did something happen in medical?”

“I want to fight.” She doesn’t bother with leading up to the demand. Octavia won’t appreciate it, and she won’t be gentled or led into an easier acquiescence than the one Abby intends to drag from her.

Octavia stares at her, lips pinched in a thin line. “No,” she says flatly, then stands and says it again as if to make the point stick. “ _No_. Essential personnel are spared the ring, you know that. If you need extra rations, or more supplies for medical—”

“It’s not about that, Octavia. I don’t need anything more than what I have.”

“Then you don’t need to fight.”

“I _want_ to.”

“Too bad. I’m not losing our head doctor because she _wants_ to get herself killed.”

“You can’t exactly stop me,” Abby points out, perversely satisfied to have found a way around Marcus’ penchant for martyrdom and Octavia’s rules in one go. “If I don’t listen to you, that’s where I’ll end up regardless.”

“Not if I say you don’t.”

“Octavia…” Abby presses her tongue against her teeth, trying to keep from snapping. “If I let people know I plan to ignore your orders, you’ll have to send me in. You won’t have a choice.” They both know it’s true: her hold on the bunker is too tenuous and dependent on the ring to allow for mistakes.

Octavia looks ready to launch herself across the room and strangle Abby herself, jaw working in frustration. Then all at once she seems to collapse inward, chin sinking towards her chest. “Why are you doing this?” Her voice is plaintive, more child than woman. “I made it so you don’t _have_ to fight.”

“But he does.”

She doesn’t bother to pretend she doesn’t know who Abby means, too angry to avoid the sore spot between them that is Marcus Kane. “He’s not our best doctor.”

Abby can afford to be gentle now, when it’s clear Octavia sees the trap she’s sprung on them both. “Jackson is more than capable of heading medical on his own, and between the grounder healers and our new trainees he’ll have enough help when the time comes for him to do it. I’ve made my choice, Octavia.”

“So why tell me first? You knew I’d say no.”

“I did.” She inclines her head, taking a step closer and keeping her eyes on Octavia’s. “I don’t plan on letting Jackson take over just yet. I came because I want to fight, not to _die_.”

Octavia laughs, “And you came to _me_? Abby, in case you hadn’t noticed you’re the one who keeps people alive. I’m the one who kills them.”

“And that’s what I need to learn how to do. If anyone could help, it would be you.” It’s the truth, but in a world before the bunker she might at least have had other options. Now, Octavia is the only one left who won’t run right to Marcus or Jackson and complicate an already fraught situation with questions.

Octavia’s face creases, wariness and confusion warring with a hint of pride, and silence hangs on a fraying thread between them for a space longer than is comfortable before she gives in. “Fine. But you start with Indra, and when she says you’re getting good enough to survive the ring I’ll step in.” _If she ever says it_ , says the tilt of her chin.

It’s easy to ignore the dig with the weight of victory on her side. “Should I ask her myself?”

“No, I’ll talk to her first. Any other demands, or are we done here?”

“Nothing else. Thank you, Octavia.” Surly acceptance of finding herself maneuvered into a corner is a small price to pay, and Abby _is_ grateful. If she doesn’t win in the ring, her attempt to save Marcus from himself is only going to hasten the opposite. A tight nod is Octavia’s only reply, and Abby takes it as the end of the conversation.

Octavia holds her silence until Abby’s hand rests on the door, and her words make Abby prickle hot and cold with the intensity of her response to them. “Why is he worth dying for, if he won’t even live for you?” There’s a ghost of their shared grief buried beneath the cold words: the too-familiar lament of a woman who loved a man who left her, only to find part of herself died alongside him.

Breathing through an answering wave of her own pain and fury, Abby doesn’t turn around. She delivers her answer to cold metal, an infinitely easier audience than the girl radiating impotent anger behind her. “I’m not doing this for him.”

\--

Abby’s knees ache when she hits the floor, teeth clacking together sharply to hold back a pained cry.

Above her, Indra nods with curt approval. “Better.”

Aggravated at her own inability to force her body to obey the orders she gives it and newly reminded of the limitations of age Indra doesn’t seem to share, Abby’s response is sour. “I’m still on the ground.”

“I didn’t say perfect, I said better.” She holds out a hand to help Abby to her feet, and her slight smile tells Abby she’s made the right choice when she swallows her angry retort and takes the help offered. “You weren’t trained for this from childhood. I was.”

“Marcus wasn’t.”

Indra ignores her churlish tone. “Marcus was in your guard for years, and he’s like Octavia. The fight comes naturally to him. He was born with an instinct for it.”

“But I wasn’t.”

“No. You weren’t.”

Irrationally stung, Abby folds her arms over her chest. “I’ve killed already, instinct or not.”

“I know.”

“Then I don’t see what instinct _matters_. I learned to shoot well enough to kill a man with a gun, I can do the same thing with my hands.” The words scour her throat like lye and Abby refuses to buckle under the pain and embraces it instead, understanding for the first time why Octavia wears her anger so nakedly.

“It matters because no amount of practice can teach you what someone like Marcus already has.”

“So why agree to teach me if I can’t win?”

“ _That_ was not what I said.”

Abby bridles at the words, chafing at the same kind of scolding she used to give Clarke. “Then maybe I don’t understand what you _are_ saying.”

“I do not waste my time on the hopeless, Abigail kom Skaikru.” The use of a word Octavia banned is as close as Indra has ever strayed towards disloyalty as far as Abby can tell, and it serves as well as a bucket of cold water to douse her ire. Indra nods, satisfied when Abby doesn’t snap back this time, and continues in a more patient voice, “You will always need to think about the next strike to make. Your body will never find this easy. I can’t make you what you weren’t meant to be, but I can train you to win despite it.”

Indra’s voice promises more pain, more long hours, more time spent feeling foolish and slow and weak, and offers hope in the same breath. She’s not the type to make false promises, not even to sweeten hard truths. _Win_ , she’d said. Not fight, but win.

Abby inhales, nodding back sharply, and readies herself for the next volley of blows.

\--

“What’s this?” Marcus traces her hip with careful fingers, and Abby looks down to see a fast-blossoming bruise spreading from just below her waist to just above her knee, courtesy of Indra’s staff, a table’s edge, and shortly thereafter, the floor. “Did something happen?”

_Did someone hurt you?_ , he means. Cursing internally, Abby scrambles for an explanation. She’d been able to write off previous smaller bruises as the product of accidents or hide them, but this is too obviously the aftermath of more than a simple bout of clumsiness.

“One of the trainees offered to teach me a little bit of hand to hand. It seemed important to her, and I thought it couldn’t hurt to know how to protect myself a bit better.” The lie trips easily off her tongue after two months of smaller lies paving the road that separates them.

“As much as I hate to see these on you...” He pauses to kiss her bruised hip, gently paying homage to each discolored patch of skin, and Abby looks at the complex whorls of scars and still-healing wounds on his back. It makes her want to rake her nails over his shoulders and encourage him to set his teeth in the purpling skin beneath his mouth until more bruises form and the only marks they bear are ones they’ve made on each other.

He can’t hear her thoughts and she won’t speak them aloud and so his touch stays gentle, lavishing tenderness over what he thinks is the product of harmless lessons while the toll of battle clothes him entirely. Beyond the basics of avoiding infection, Marcus refuses to let her use their dwindling medical supplies on him and no amount of pleading has done any good to change his mind.

Unaware of the turmoil roiling above his head, he breathes a loving benediction onto her skin. “I’m glad you’ll be able to defend yourself if you need to.”

_Even from you?_ she thinks, as she pulls him away from the bruise and up her body for a kiss that tastes like salt and regret.


	2. Chapter 2

Another four months pass and Marcus goes back into the ring six times without any mention of Octavia’s promise to finish the last part of Abby’s training herself. Indra steadfastly refuses to give her any indication of when she’ll be ready to pass her off to her commander, only doling out sparse praise for each improvement and a noncommittal _"when I think it’s time”_ the few times Abby dares to push her for a more specific answer.

“Indra says you’re ready for me to take over your training.”

Swallowing back a startled yelp, Abby looks up from their dwindling inventory of antibiotics to find Octavia sitting on one of the operating tables, comfortable enough she looks like she might well have been perched there for hours, waiting for Abby to notice her. “...Does she?” Pride wars with annoyance before both give way to relief, and one single thought: _finally_.

Lifting one shoulder in a shrug, Octavia hops down and looks her over with careful eyes. “She said you learn fast.”

“Really?” If she’d been terrible Indra would have said so, but Abby wouldn’t have guessed that the pace that felt painfully sluggish to her had impressed her teacher.

“Yeah. Means you stand a chance to survive this… as long as you survive me first.” She bares her teeth in a fierce grin Abby returns, the pent up anxiety of months of waiting funneled into the enjoyment she’s learned to take in the fighting itself, if not the idea of what she’s training to do.

Octavia takes her down to the ring itself instead of to her rooms, biting off a short order to her guards to bar the doors and keep them closed until they’re done.

Abby glances around the cavernous space, breathing in sweat and blood and stone. “I thought you said we shouldn’t let anyone know you were training me to fight.”

“We still shouldn’t. But you need to know what it’s like to fight in a larger space, and... it’s _you_. Nobody’s going to think that’s why we’re here.” Abby must make some kind of face at what that implies, because Octavia laughs and the genuine humor in it nearly chases the anger from her eyes. “Don’t worry, they’ll all know once we’re done.”

Octavia has her on the ground with a sword at her jugular inside five minutes, but Abby makes her work for each minute. After, Octavia helps her up and looks at her speculatively, fingering the dagger at her side. “You’re not bad. But you don’t have to do this, you know. You can still change your mind.”

Abby thinks of Marcus’ face after his last win. “I won’t.”

“I figured.” In one swift motion, she unsheathes the blade she’s been toying with and hands it to Abby hilt-first. “Here. You can’t use a scalpel in the ring, and you can keep this hidden if you need to.”

It’s half as long as her forearm, reed-slender and sharp enough to serve as a scalpel itself, as Abby discovers when she tests the edge on a finger and crimson rushes up to meet silver. “Are you sure?”

“You bled on it. It’s yours now.” Handing her the sheath, Octavia turns away and begins the work of putting her armor back on, a clear end to the lesson Abby knows better than to ignore.

\--

Marcus’ next fight is five weeks to the day after Octavia’s lesson. She’s counted each one, waking up each day with the knowledge that this might be _the_ day, watching for the rituals Marcus has built himself around preparation for the ring. There’s the careful tying back of his hair the morning of, but the night before it’s always a letter. Or maybe it’s the same letter each time, but inevitably the night before before he fights she’ll find him with one of the precious scraps of paper he’d managed to tuck away before the doors sealed.

It’s in his hands when she comes back to their quarters to shower, the familiar dog-eared corners setting her heartbeat tripping off its easy rhythm.

“Am I interrupting?”

He immediately tucks the paper into a book, carefully putting it away before taking her in his arms for a kiss. This is ritual too, and she’d like to hate him for it but that ship sailed long ago. Resting his forehead against hers for a moment before pulling away, Marcus continues his ritual and answers the question she never asks.

“I’m fighting again tomorrow.”

Abby sags against the doorframe, nodding weakly. “I thought you might be.” The inevitable presses down like stones piled atop her chest, and an acrid taste grows at the back of her throat. “What if I asked you not to fight? Just this once, let someone else do it. Stay with me.”

“Oh, Abby.” He cradles her face in his scarred hands, gentle as a boy cradling a bird’s egg. “You know I can’t do that. Our people need the supplies.”

“Let _them_ fight, then. Marcus—”

“ _No_ , Abby. It’s my choice to make.”

A million angry retorts claw at her lips, desperate to escape, but she swallows each one down and ignores the way they burn. He’s made her choice, and she’s made hers. “I don’t want to spend tonight arguing, then.”

A relieved smile lights his face, shaving years off in one blow as he reaches for her. “Neither do I.”

\--

She waits until Marcus is asleep beside her to slip away and find Octavia, brushing past her guards without a word like she has every night since Octavia gave them standing orders to expect her.

“I’m going to fight tomorrow.” Saying it aloud makes her stomach clench with nerves and something she can’t bear to label, a feeling with teeth and claws that rips at her from the inside out.

Octavia narrows her eyes, then nods. “All right, then.” She strips off her armor, beckoning Abby to the makeshift ring they’ve made of her office. “Let’s see what you can do.”

She still beats Abby; of course she does, but as she sweeps Abby’s legs from beneath her Abby manages to lash out and catch Octavia in the knee with a closed fist. It makes her stagger and nearly fall; cold comfort when Abby can barely catch her breath, but when she does Octavia’s hand is waiting to help her up. It’s followed by a proud little bump of their shoulders together, the closest she’s seen Octavia come to open affection since the doors closed and sealed them all together, down in the dark.

They share the silence companionably while Abby takes a drink of water and shakes off the lingering dizziness of having the air knocked from her lungs.

“Abby…” Octavia pauses, a little hesitant before she spits out in a rush, “If it’s not for him, why _are_ you doing this?”

After everything she’s done, Octavia deserves an honest answer, and Abby finds herself wanting to give voice to the bitterness lodged behind her breastbone. It’s fitting; Octavia is the only one who already understands the toll that comes from loving a man bent on martyring himself. “I won’t be left again.”

Octavia is silent for a while, chasing her own ghosts. “They’re going to underestimate you. You’ve never been in the ring before, you’re small, and they’ll think that means you’ll be easy to beat. _Use_ that.” Choked through a tight throat, it’s as close to a blessing as she can give.

Abby rests a gentle hand on Octavia’s shoulder, skin garishly pale against the ink of her tattoo. “Thank you, Octavia. For everything, all of it.”

Octavia colors and shrugs, ducking away from the contact under the guise of getting her own waterskin. “Whatever. Don’t lose, or you’ll embarrass Indra.”

“Well, I’d hate to do that after all the time she spent on me.”

“Good. Because I’m in charge, and I say you better win.” She’s not joking now, and Abby takes her leave with the command dogging her steps.

\--

Abby takes in the first three fights from Octavia’s side. She gives occasional commentary under her breath, offering advice and critique and distracting Abby from her nerves all in equal measure. After a large grounder with a tattoo that spreads like wings across the top third of his face kills the winner of the first two and ends the third match Abby catches her eye and nods purposefully.

She nods back, then jerks her chin at the two members of her guard she’d tasked with holding Marcus back when the time came. She hisses one last instruction in Abby’s ear and rises, holding up her arms for quiet.

“We have a new challenger today, Wonkru.” Abby rises to her feet and starts to climb down the staircase to the ring, forcing herself not to turn and look when Marcus calls her name with increasing frantic volume and Octavia’s men subdue his attempts to follow her.

The grounder she’s supposed to fight looks confused, and he darts a concerned eye at the mostly silent crowd before returning his gaze to Octavia.

“Abby Griffin and Alak. Good luck.” Octavia’s face looks like it’s been carved from the same stone as the floor beneath her feet, every inch a queen. When she smiles, it’s twice as threatening. “My money’s on her.”

The crowd laughs appreciatively, jeering at her opponent. If Octavia means to help her by setting him off balance right away, it works. His fist crashes into her face in a vicious backhand; for a man of his size the blow is an insult, but it set her ears ringing. He does it again, almost casual in the motion, and the sudden rage she feels nearly chokes her. He’s making a show of it, secure in the knowledge that she’s no real threat to him.

She remembers the lessons Indra and Octavia taught her and when he does it again she forces herself to think beyond the painful buzzing filling her ears and rocks back with the blow, falling to one knee and then hunching over as if he’s stunned her.

Fickle as they always are, the crowd is already back with him, ready to see him tear her to pieces. Above her the man raises his bloody arms, roaring his triumph to and urging them to their feet, their returning screams catching his full attention for single crucial moment Abby needs.

 _"That’s the abdominal aorta, Ab. Careful now, you nick that and odds are you’ll lose your patient faster than you can staunch the flow and hook up a transfusion.”_ Her father’s voice drifts through the ringing in her ears, followed by Octavia’s final advice. _“End it fast, Abby. Don’t let him draw it out or he’ll wear you down. Make him think you’re weak and when he’s distracted, you go in for the kill.”_

Octavia’s gift is cold in her hand when she snatches it from her boot and springs upward, metal warming to her palm as she angles the blade just so ( _up and to the left, out through the back and for the love of God don’t hit the spine_ ) and allows her momentum to drive her body into his, knocking them both back a step. The knife slips easily into his abdomen, and Abby pushes until her fist meets his chest then darts as far back as the ring will allow, leaving the knife where it rests. He bellows with rage, tugging the knife out and taking a furious step forward only for his eyes to widen in panic as he looks down and realizes what Abby’s done. Pulling the knife out brought with it a cascade of red, growing from a trickle to a stream in a matter of seconds. He steps again, heavily, then staggers and falls to his knees. A shout of pain dies in his throat before he can give it full voice, the shock still stamped clear in his slackening face.

Abby stares as he thuds down on his side, eyes glued to the dagger he dropped when he crashed to the floor, a glint of silver among all the red. Numbly she retrieves it, and the first cheer rings out. Then there’s another, and another, until it seems like the walls themselves are roaring her name.

She barely hears it. Marcus draws her gaze like a lodestone now that it’s over, impossible to ignore. He’s still restrained by Octavia’s guards, but he sags into their hold instead of fighting it as if their arms are all that keeps him from collapsing to the ground himself.

\--

He follows her out the door, grabbing her by the arm and jerking her into an alcove when she ignores his calls after her.

“Let go of me, Marcus.” She stares down at his hand pointedly until he releases her, forcing herself to stand taller and meet his anger with her own even as the memory of the grounder’s body falling clamors for her attention like an impatient child.

Released of an outlet for his tension, Marcus’ hands twitch angrily at his sides. “What the hell were you _thinking_? You could have been killed.”

Could have been. _Could have been_ , when he was striding purposefully towards exactly that end. “At least I _wanted_ to stay alive!”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“You know exactly what it means.” He flinches, and Abby sees guilty recognition in his eyes. “I knew it. Did you already have it all planned out, or were you just going to see when it felt best to stop fighting?”

“Abby…”

“Admit it.”

“That’s not—”

“Just admit it, Marcus.”

He growls in frustration, breath coming faster. “God _damnit_ , Abigail, this wasn’t your choice to make!”

Bitterness slices through her like a knife, and she lashes out in kind. “Now, why does this conversation feel familiar.” He jerks back like she’s slapped him at the reminder of the fights they’d had when she first woke up and found herself alive and trapped beyond radio reach without the chance to say goodbye to her daughter. A savage thrill of pleasure mixes with the guilt in her stomach, and Abby jabs harder at the wound. “Now you know how it felt.”

He wants to hurt her back and for one heart stopping moment, Abby thinks he will; _hopes_ he will, because the fight in the ring wasn’t enough to cool a flame left burning too long to put out. Finally he shakes his head, grinding out, “You can’t keep me from going in.”

“Maybe not, but as long as you do I’m going to do the same.”

“You can’t—” he breaks off, choking on a hopeless breath. “If I can change her mind… change all their minds… isn’t it worth it? We wanted that better world for our people, and look what we’ve let them become.”

“Oh, _Marcus_.” Sympathetic despite herself, Abby cups Marcus’ cheek with one bloody hand. “I love you.” Kissing him reopens her split lip, copper leaking into the sweetness of his touch and corroding. “But I told you in Arkadia. I can’t do it again.”

His inhale sounds wet, and when she releases him and steps away his lashes spike with moisture. “Abby…”

“I _won’t_ do it again.” Won’t be left. Won’t pretend the penchant for self-sacrifice everyone she loves seems to share—the kind _she_ shares, now—doesn’t have a seed of selfishness at the core. “I won’t be left again, Marcus.”

Tears start to leak silently down his cheeks. They begin to blur the edges of the bloody print she left behind until it’s nearly erased, and this time when she walks away he doesn’t stop her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm playing by canon's rules on how long it takes to become a Stone Cold Badass, what is realism sometimes The 100 isn't entirely sure.
> 
> Also this totally won't happen in canon and that's p for the best, but also expect more in this verse later because oops I fell in love with my own problematic baby.
> 
> ALSO ILU BRITTANY, PORN NEXT I SWEAR


End file.
